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<title>red were the stones and trampled mud by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092657">red were the stones and trampled mud</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster'>AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kanó- and Nelyo and -Káno [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And also Fingon, But at the end of the day it is Tolkien's fault, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Neither of you deserved this, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Whoops I Am Very Very Sorry Maedhros</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:28:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092657</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros searches for Fingon after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.</p><p>He finds him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kanó- and Nelyo and -Káno [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>red were the stones and trampled mud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from lay of leithian, etc</p><p>my hand slipped and now i'm sad</p><p>EDIT:  thanks to Аврора 123 there is now a translation into русский now available at https://ficbook.net/readfic/10335978</p><p>Thanks so much!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The battlefield smells of blood and death.  The droning buzz of flies overpowers all other sounds.  Maedhros stares around, trying to tell himself he comes to look for the wounded and not because he saw the blue banner fall.  He cannot be sure that he saw it fall.  There was so much happening; he and his brothers were lucky to escape with their lives.  He is looking for the wounded.</p><p>            There are not many wounded.  Blood has soaked into the ground, and the bodies of Elves and Dwarves and Orcs and Men lie tangled up in a grim embrace.  Broken swords and broken shields litter the ground between them, and the churned-up mud is steaming faintly.  Maedhros is not wading in blood, but it feels as if he is wading in blood.  The shattered hafts of spears and banners lie all around, poking up sadly like bent, crushed reeds.  He did not see the blue banner fall.</p><p>            He walks for what feels like hours, and still he does not see any wounded.  He hears none of the groans of those near death, only the incessant humming drone of the flies.  He begins to wish he had not split from his brothers.  It would be slower to search the field together, but it would be less lonely, too. </p><p>            But he is alone, as alone as he ever was suspended from the peak above Angband.  The only life here is the crawling insects and carrion-birds that feed on the dead.  No.  He did not see the blue banner fall. </p><p>            He can hear his breathing now, harsh in his own ears.  “<em>Fingon</em>!” he calls.  There is no echo.  The word is swallowed up by the mud and the corpses.  The corpses must go on forever and ever.  A mad, terrified impulse takes Maedhros, and he wants to run and run, and he is certain that if he runs, there will be nothing but these bodies unspooling forever and ever, an unending testament to his failure.  But he did not <em>see</em> it, he thinks wildly, trying to cling to that scrap of desperate faith.  He did not see it fall.</p><p>            And yet it has fallen, all the same.  Through the sound of his own harsh breath in his ears, through the heat-haze and steam of the churned-up battleground, he sees a scrap of blue soaked with red, and something seizes in his chest.  He coughs and doubles over and coughs again, on his knees now, forcing himself to clamber clumsily toward it.  It can’t be—please, it can’t be—</p><p>            Most of the blue is soaked to a dull red-brown, but some little of it lies above the muck.  A few threads of silken embroidery have snapped, their frayed little ends swaying in the lazy breeze.  Maedhros chokes on pain and clutches at it.  It is wet and sodden and heavy, and his hands come away marked red.  “No,” someone is muttering, in a hoarse, desperate voice, a plea that there is no one but Maedhros to hear.  “No, no, no, please.  Please.  Anything but this.”</p><p>            There is a golden ribbon, mud-spattered, fluttering in the mud by the banner’s side, a frizzy curl of long, dark hair.  Maedhros braided that ribbon into that hair two nights earlier, pressing desperate kisses to the throat beneath, and he did not braid it well enough, for it has come undone.</p><p>              The stench of death is heavy here, so heavy.  His head throbs with pain.  There is a hand, the nails broken, fingers swollen, near the ribbon, and dented armor.  Dented armor, in the form of a <em>hröa</em>.  Bits and pieces.  The banner, the ribbon, the hand.  None of it forms a complete picture, because there is no face.</p><p>            A bird is wailing.  Perhaps it has lost someone.  Maedhros has seen birds in Middle Earth performing funeral rites for a fallen comrade, just as the Children of Ilúvatar do.  But he cannot see any birds.  He cannot see anything.  Everything is a strange, grey haze, and the bird’s wailing cry fills his ears.</p><p>            “Maedhros, Maedhros—by the Valar—”  Maglor’s voice, terrified and soothing in equal measure.  Maedhros wonders how he came to be here.  “Come away,” Maglor begs.  “Maedhros.  Look at me.  Come away.”</p><p>            Come away.  Maedhros looks exhaustedly up at his brother, but he lets himself be tugged to his feet (when did he fall?  Was he not standing?)  He should—he should go with Maglor.  Usually he is the one leading, but he is tired—so tired.  He stumbles a few steps with his brother, and then he stops.</p><p>            “No, wait,” he mumbles, clutching at Maglor’s arm.  “His braid—the ribbon has fallen out.  I must fix it for him.”  Somehow, it is very important.  Somehow, it is the most important thing in the world.</p><p>            There is nothing else that he can do.</p>
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